Cruel Fate, How I Loath Thee
by Child of Loki
Summary: Because abusing heroes is fun... Ch7: Things never go from 'Bad to Better'
1. Dislocated

**Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis or its characters...**

**Author's Note: I wrote this a very long while ago, in one of those spurts of inspiration, which left the overall story with large gaps, that I've barely paid attention to over the years since I originally started this. So, I'm not really sure why I'm posting it…maybe to see if it's worth filling in the holes. I like it enough that I reread it every so often, so perhaps it is good enough to entertain someone else?**

"C'mon, Rodney. Help me out with this!"

"Wh-what?" the agitated scientist responded. "I'm not a medical doctor, colonel. I-I…"

"Just get a firm hold on it and pop it back into place!" John Sheppard growled through clenched teeth. It was difficult enough dealing with the pain, let alone convincing his friend that he could in fact aide him.

Dr. Rodney McKay threw his hands up in the air, and backed away from the man pleading for some assistance. This was beyond his abilities. "I have no clue-I have no idea how to put a joint back into place! I'm not Beckett. I'm not even a nurse. You've seen my first-aide skills-they're inadequate at best. I can't even put a band-aid on correctly. It's those little bits you're supposed to peel off. I just can't seem to manage it without touching the sterile part and getting bacteria all over the pla-"

"Rodney! Some help! Please!"

The scientist took a step forward, responding to the forceful plea as if it were an order. He reached out a shaking hand tentatively, and touched his companion's slack arm. Catching the wince deepening upon Sheppard's face, Rodney jumped back.

"How would I even know that I'm doing it right?" he asked in protest, a final attempt to weasel out of participating in the procedure. "I could do more damage than good!"

"You'll hear a loud 'pop'!" Sheppard barked at him.

McKay gave him a surprised look. "Really?"

John simply growled at his friend, who was very quickly losing that status, finally giving up on coaxing the stubborn man into doing what he asked. The pain was becoming close to unbearable.

"I'll do it myself," the injured man hissed.

John looked around their cave-cell for a part of the concave, roughly hewn wall that was flat enough -bar smooth-to serve his purpose. Finding an area that might suffice, he quickly moved onto the next step before he had second thoughts. He grabbed his throbbing, limp right arm with his still functional left hand. Palpating his shoulder for the socket, wincing at the more piercing waves of pain it caused, he made sure the head of his humerus would align correctly. Then he clenched his teeth and propelled himself, injured shoulder in front of him, with some amount of force against the rough rock wall.

Rodney found himself frozen in place at the display, only able to watch in horror the colonel's attempt at fixing his shoulder. The injured man cried out when he impacted the wall, then proceeded to collapse to the sand-covered floor as his legs gave out beneath him. The scientist felt that he probably should've rushed to the aide of his friend, but only continued to stare in morbid fascination as the broken form swore, collected itself and rose back to its feet.

John took several steps back from the wall after forcing himself to get up. _Second time's a charm?_

This time, along with the trauma of the impact, there was an intense feeling of release that washed over his body in a wave, dulling the intense pain that had been consuming the right part of his upper body. And he nearly pissed himself in relief, but caught his bladder in time, instead allowing himself to once again collapse to the sand-covered floor. His chest heaved as he breathed freely once more. It felt like he had been holding in the air the entire time, thinking that if he kept it trapped in his lungs, it couldn't escape his lips in an anguished scream.

"What did they want?" Rodney asked, finally able to aide his friend, helping him to sit up.

"I don't know Rodney," he replied gruffly. "They just threw me in some sort of fighting ring with some Conan-like guy who came at me like I was after his horde of gold and women. I barely managed to stay alive, let alone ask them why they kidnapped us."

"So they didn't tell you anything?" the scientist asked disbelievingly. "No threats, no plots for galactic domination, no dinner invitation? _What? I'm starving!_"

"Rodney, surely you know the first rule of Fight Club?" the colonel asked, regaining part of his sense of humor with the subsidence of the pain.

"Yeah, yeah," he answered, not amused in the least. He was hungry and scared and hungry and terrified and really, really hungry. The colonel gave him a challenging look. He wasn't going to be satisfied until his friend let him make the allusion. "You don't talk about Fight Club. _Are you sure they didn't say anything about dinner?_"

"What's the second rule of Fight Club?"

"You don't talk about Fight Club," Rodney conceded very much unpleased. "Okay. I get it! But I just can't believe that you weren't able to pick up anything at all, any clue to where we are… something, _anything!_"

"We're in a cell in a cave, Rodney," Sheppard replied sarcastically.

"Well, _thank you _Captain Obvious," He snapped back. "I mean are we even still on PF3-728?"

"I don't know, McKay! I didn't exactly pause to ask for directions while my arm was being torn from its socket!"

John sighed heavily, repositioning himself with his back against the rough rock wall. It was cold, but not as cold as he had expected for a cave wall. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, fighting the nausea over the comparatively dull throb in his shoulder. Ironically, this was looking to be the best part of his day so far, even with the spastic McKay.

But still…

"I could really use a few minutes rest, okay?" he cut off another super-charged, long-winded, rambling Rodney rant.

And with that, John Sheppard allowed himself to fall into the blissful realm of unconsciousness where it didn't matter that they had been zapped and hauled off by aliens, that he had nearly been torn apart by a man twice his size, or thrown in a musty cave with the most aggravating man he had ever met (and yet somehow called a 'friend')…

**A/N: Two Things: 1. I need a better title. 2. The next section, if I post it, will show the weird style twist I intended for this story.**

**A/N (update 8/20/08): If you are only interested in the gore, you may want to skip ahead to chapter five…**


	2. Dreaming Interlude 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis or its characters...**

**Author's Note: Apologies to anyone who actually reads the crap I post here, but I've been kind of distracted by other stuff (and actually got sucked back into writing original fiction). This would be an example of the weird twist that I felt like throwing into the narrative style. It's probably more random than entertaining, but what the hay, it entertained me! Hopefully, I will get back to filling in the gaps in this one, enough to make it postable. (There is gore in chapters ahead, if you just bear with the bizarreness…)**

_Giggling aroused John's attention. It cut through the heavy dead air of the library like a sharp knife, noticeably out of place among the dusty tomes and muffled sounds of busywork. He pulled his nose out of the 'book' he was reading, which consisted of the assigned English novel that was due by the end of the week with a comic book nestled in between its open pages, and looked around. He identified the source of the almost sacrilegious disruption of _Quiet Please_. It was two girls from John's class; Elizabeth Weir and Teyla Emmagen. _

_Although not extremely close to the pair, John was somewhat familiar with the girls. Teyla had been in his PE classes, and was quite an impressive athlete. And Elizabeth had been his partner for social studies last year, in which they had to do several presentations and projects together. He wondered what could be so amusing to them that they'd risk bringing down the wrath of Ms. Eccleston, the gruff old librarian._

_Elizabeth, briefly glancing around, caught him looking at them. She raised an eyebrow at him, just one, in a quizzical flirtatious manner, before Teyla realizing what had distracted her friend, whispered something into her ear. This caused them both to giggle again, releasing John from Elizabeth's gaze. He let out his breath slowly and pretended to return to his reading._

_The trials and tribulations of Peter Parker's life no longer held the same interest for John, whose imagination had been captured by the giggling conspiracy of the two pretty girls sitting at a table across the room from him. He stole glances of them whenever he could. _What were they up to?

_He inconspicuously watched as Elizabeth pulled a small piece of paper out of a book and unfolded it, revealing its contents to Teyla. The olive-skinned girl seemed surprised by what it held, then a smile spread across her pretty face and again she whispered something clandestinely into Elizabeth's ear. This time, instead of letting a musical giggle past her lips, the dark haired, green-eyed beauty blushed horribly for a moment. _

_Then Teyla said something else, rising to her feet. Elizabeth regained her normally-creamy complexion and she stood, gathering her things up before following her friend out of the library. _

_John watched the pair of girls who just had proved far more interesting than he had ever considered them to be before as they made their exit, matching pigtails bobbing and plaid skirts swishing as their just recently widening hips swayed. After they disappeared from view around a stack of books, he decided he should probably try to actually complete his homework assignment._

_He put it off for another minute more, surveying the library for any other potential distraction he could use as an excuse, but found none. That is, until his eyes roamed over the table where the girls had been sitting. There was a little white piece of paper sitting all by itself in the middle of the dark wooden surface, calling his name. He dashed over to the table, desperate to know its contents, that which had surprised Teyla, made her smile, and best of all made the unflappable Elizabeth blush. _

_Hesitating momentarily, he questioned whether it was right to pry into the girls' private business. But despite the questionable morality in the action, his curiosity was far more pressing. He just had to know! John reached out slowly for the note, allowing the moment to stretch out longer, relishing the anticipation, letting all the potential and intriguing possibilities of its contents play out in his mind. Finally it was in his hand, its secrets ready to be bared, when a voice made him jump._

"_I believe that's mine." It was sweet, and surprisingly, not accusatory. And most of all it was familiar._

"_Elizabeth, I…" John began as he turned to face the girl whose privacy he was about to try to invade. His heart was beating insanely fast at being caught. He held out the note to her. "Here."_

"_Thanks," she said, smiling sweetly, taking the folded piece of ruled paper from his hand. She turned and walked away. But John was far too intrigued to let it end without any closure for his wild imagination._

"_Uh, Elizabeth?" She turned to face him. "What is it?"_

_Her smile deepened from sweet to mischievous and she winked at him before she resumed her departure without a single word and nowhere near the explanation that he had hoped for. _It must be _some_ secret. _And John couldn't help but feel that it had something to do with him…_

John awoke with a moan as he remembered the pain of the previous day. It was no longer at agonizing-level, but his body had become stiff from the trauma of injury. He blinked several times before he was willing to accept reality. Still in the godforsaken cave-cell. Still trapped. And still hurting.

"Well, it's about time, Sheppard!"

Maybe he could just pretend he was still unconscious…

"Or should I say 'Sleeping Beauty'?! I know you're injured but how many of hours of sleep could you possibly need?!"

"Nice to know you're still alive, too, Rodney," John replied to his friend's spastic harassment. The whiney vocalizations weren't exactly the most pleasant thing to hear after you've been sleeping off a terrible hurt. But he could see it from his friend's point of view as well. McKay never handled stressful situations well and being left alone to stew in his own thoughts for John didn't know how many hours with no focus for them was the worst possible prescription for one of his panic attacks.

He knew it would only send his friend off on another long-winded hyper-rampant rant, but John asked anyway.

"Figure a way out of here yet?"

**A/N: 1. The seemingly random dream(s) will come into play later. 2. I don't intend for this fic to be shippy at all, but there are no guarantees about what my subconscious will do. Hopefully, if it must do so, it will be subtle or I will realize the error and purge it. 3. Comments are more than welcome and appreciated, but I fear that with this one, I'm bound to do whatever the hell I want. 4. Still looking for a better title… **


	3. Explaining Science To Homo Habilis

**Disclaimer: (It is obvious that) I don't own **_**Stargate Atlantis**_** or its characters… (or they would probably be horrible mangled)**

**Author's note: This doesn't really fit in the actual timeline anywhere, or really even make sense in my head anymore. But I enjoy writing it nonetheless. Thus, I have come back 'round to it. And it is always fun to pick on our heroes…**

"Figure a way out of here yet?"

"And how was I supposed to do that?" McKay involuntarily snapped at his friend. "You're the escape artist and do I need to point out that you were unconscious for who-knows-how-long. I mean how would I know? We're underground! It's not like I could track the sun across the sky…or even if that would help, because we don't even know which planet we're on! And I have a terrible internal clock. You're the one who always keeps track of all that stuff, you know, hours until check-in, how long until the rescue team's due to arrive, how many guards there are…but 'NO!' you had to go and pick a fight, yet again… Well, it really wasn't your fault…this time… Sorry."

After McKay had worn himself out and calmed down, he remembered his manners and offered his cell mate what remained of the disgustingly stale loaf of bread a burly guard had tossed at him while his friend lay unconscious.

"I saved you some," he pointed out his uncharacteristically generous act. "Not that it's worth eating. Probably rotten, or worse…poisoned." He blanched a little bit. "No one uses citrus in bread, right?"

"I'm sure it's fine Rodney," John placated his overly paranoid friend. Why was it even when he had that shit kicked out of him, he was still the one that had to be confident and reassuring?

The chunk of bread was easily the single most disgusting thing John Sheppard had ever put in his mouth…and he vividly remembered eating an earthworm on a dare when he was ten years old. The offensive staple sapped what little moisture remained in his mouth, threatening to choke him if he swallowed too soon. So, instead the assault of repulsive flavor continued as it rolled over his tongue. The texture easily convinced him that its recipe called for more dirt than flour.

And yet, soon after it was gone from (but not forgotten by) his mouth, his stomach pleaded for more. How long had it been since his last meal? Too long for a body that needed more than sustenance to heal.

"Your turn."

The deep, gravely voice startled John. His brain must've been still hovering around the realm of unconsciousness, for he hadn't seen the large men approach the grated opening to their cell. A quick glance at McKay informed him that his cellmate was just as startled by their appearance. Actually more so, but that was a given with the jumpy scientist.

Then again, if the pair had been giving John the intimidating stare instead of Rodney, he might rival the man's scared-rabbit routine. But they weren't. So John found it only physically difficult to rise to his feet and place himself somewhat on level with their hosts. He was grateful he made the effort however when the thick metal grating of the cell door swung open with a rusty whine, and the apparent guards entered their little, stale world.

"M-me?" McKay stuttered, so frightened her couldn't even muster his normal string of ravings. He did manage to shrink bank several feet into the cell, however.

The guard who spoke was enormous, the biggest man Sheppard had ever laid eyes upon, and that was saying a lot, considering he always attracted the largest, ugliest, toughest looking sumbitches in any scrap. Bad guys flocked to him like candy. But this time around, they appeared to be more interested in his friend.

"What do ya want?" Sheppard interrupted, stepping between the giant-on-earth (or whatever goddamn planet they were on) and Rodney, who was currently shaking in his boots.

"It's his turn to fight," He-man announced as if it were obvious.

"f-f-fight?" McKay stammered, still too scared for his brain to operate properly.

"I do the fighting," Sheppard informed him, trying to look like he was in some condition to back up the front he was putting up. "He's the…He does the…"

Sheppard looked over his shoulder at the man he was trying to protect. (He really needed to get a handle on his urge to defend every living thing he considered within his purview.) How could he possibly explain to this behemoth and his equally dense looking guard friends what McKay did, why he was useful, necessary even, despite his aggravating personality?

"What _is_ it you do?" Sheppard groped for help.

Finally, McKay blinked. One could only hold their eyes open wide in fright for so long, even when as practiced as Rodney McKay. He made a quick mental note to start bringing eye-drops with him wherever he went.

"Psst-some help here?" John scolded. _Was it too much to ask someone to give a little help in formulating excuses to save their lives?_

"Uh-science," Rodney provided uselessly.

_Big help, Rodney, thanks! _This guy looked like he had just figured out that a twig could fish ants out of a log that morning.

"Right," Sheppard said, turning his attention back to the Brute Squad standing before him. Losing momentum would be a bad thing. If he kept them off balance, namely by forcing them to think for more than fractions of a second at a time, maybe they could get out of this, or at least McKay off the roster for Ultimate Fighting Pegasus-Style.

"He does the _Sci-ence_." (Always enunciate when addressing people whose body count was very likely higher than their IQ) "Fixes things. You know, tech-nol-ogy."

They didn't appear to be following his explanation.

"He can invent wheel. Makes things easier to move." John finally gave in to the temptation to really talk down to the intimidating mountains of flesh (and obviously not brains). Some good sarcasm-with a dash of condescension-always made him feel better, especially since it was most definitely the only way in which he could possibly claim a win. "Or rub two sticks together. Make fire. Cook Food."

"Uh-you think antagonizing them is wise, Sheppard?" McKay whispered, already backing away from what he could easily see becoming the center of a massive mêlée (massive, not because of numbers, but because of the sheer size of the opposing side). Try as he might, the scientist could not picture it lasting long, or ending in anything other than his friend being crushed to death.

"Bang rocks together?" Sheppard tried, knowing from what he had seen so far, mainly weaponry, that these people-whoever the hell the sadists were-actually had at least metal-working knowledge. But he still would've been more liable to believe that the creature standing before him was more closely related to Lucy than to _homo sapien sapiens_ or even _habilis_ for that matter.

"He fixes things," Gigantor said after what appeared to be a few moments of intense concentration on his part that gave unibrow a new meaning.

McKay finally seemed to snap out of terrified-beyond-reason and into self-preservation mode.

"Yes. I fix things. Anything you want. Got anything that's broken? I'll fix it," he spoke a mile-a-minute, hands waving about frantically. "That's me. I'm Mr. Fix-It. Anything, anything at al-"

"Okay, Rodney," Sheppard hissed at his friend. "He gets the point."

"We'll be back." With that, the loutish men withdrew from the cell and the Lanteans were once more locked away, alone, but at least sans trolls.

"Don't worry. We'll be right here," Sheppard called after their receding shapes. "Waiting on bated breath!"

**A/N: There is good abuse ahead, once I figure out what goes in between this and that…**


	4. An Implausible Portcullis

**Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis or its characters… (I just like to kick the sh-- out of them sometimes.) I also do not own the various pop culture staples I have referenced/will reference throughout.**

**Author's note: This is short, but it was necessary for there to be some sort of segue to the delicious abuse of Sheppard bit coming up next…**

As McKay trudged along behind the semi-giant, he wished that he hadn't eaten his entire portion of the stale loaf of bread. It definitely would've better served as breadcrumbs to mark the path than a source of sustenance. And he knew it was important that he try to be as observant as possible as he was led about the system of caves.

Sheppard had been let out of their depressingly dank cell before, but only to be banged up enough that whatever brain cells that had managed to survive this long hadn't faired so well. So it was all up to Rodney. He would have to remember the layout of the place, figure out a way to escape.

And since they were taking him to repair something… maybe there would be tools he could 'borrow.' No one had said exactly what was in need of fixing. But given those he had encountered thus far, they probably were simply not capable of understanding it themselves. Let alone articulating the problem… or articulating at all.

In fact, every time one had opened his mouth, Rodney had honestly expected grunting instead of words. Cavemen! Thoughts of primitive creatures masquerading as men led his thoughts to a certain individual, one that he silently swore that he would no longer refer to as a 'caveman' if he made it out of the Clan of the Cave Bears alive. Even behind his back…

The more Neanderthal than human leading the way stopped short, and Rodney, having his mind occupied with what he would never admit were unimportant thoughts, ran into him. Immediately, he regretted the lapse in attention, for the man was as solid as rock, which Rodney also estimated the trolls intelligence to equal.

The scientist rubbed his nose and resisted the urge to shout a stupefying stream of offenses, regarding the species of origin of the man (if you could call him that)'s mother and/or father.

"Here," Grog announced. It was easier to think of him as 'Grog' than to ask him for his actual name. The result of such an inquiry could only have two possible outcomes in Rodney's mind, neither of which was pleasant. 1. Grog could think it an impertinent question and violence against his person could ensue. Or 2. The oaf's brain could explode sending shards of rock-hard flesh spraying in his direction. No, silently calling him 'Grog' was the best viable option.

"Alright," Rodney said, mustering all of his strength to force a façade of geniality. "We're here." He paused briefly, but no further explanation was offered.

"Where's here?" He tried after the moment of bizarre silence stretched on. This particular inquiry appeared to be too much for poor Grog. His unibrow furrowed into more prominence, placing most of his face into shadow rather than just his eyes.

"Here," he repeated his previous remark, obviously unable to generate anything resembling independent thought.

"I thought I was supposed to fix something," Rodney asked hopefully. He clasped his hands together to signifying his readiness to work.

"This gate is broken," Grog offered. Pointing to an opening similar to that of their cell and many others they had passed along the way. But although the style of metal grating looked similar, it was not securely entrenched with a doorway worked into the middle on rusty hinges with rusty locks. Instead, it seemed to be rigged to a system of winches…a fashion very nearly resembling…

"_A portcullis?"_ Rodney wondered aloud. Why would they install a medieval style gate in the middle of their complex? Weren't they supposed to block the entrance, keeping invaders out, and peasants (or in their case, captives) in? Grog looked at him blankly. _How unexpected_. Of course, he would not be familiar with the term anyway… Still, Rodney couldn't help his curiosity being roused. "What's this gate used for?"

"It allows the beasts into the arena," Grog supplied.

Oh, that was real reassuring! Not only were there who-knew-how-many brutish giants in the complex of caves, there were "beasts", most likely bloodthirsty ones, infesting the place. One wrong turn during an escape attempt and they were Bantha fodder. Wait a minute-

"What arena?" Rodney couldn't contain his confusion. Having tasked his verbal capacities for the day, Grog pointed behind the scientist. He turned around slowly, not wanting to fall for the old trick, a quick anxiety screaming to be heard. What he saw shocked him, but fortunately didn't terrify him (in the immediate sense, at least).

Somehow, through all their wanderings down poorly lit, earthy halls, they had ended up in a small alcove on the edge of a very large cavern, the center of which held an arena to rival those of ancient Rome. And Rodney could not believe it. There was just no way he was that unobservant.

But the sight of a blue sky shining down from a gargantuan hole in the cave ceiling was enough to put an end to his face-off with his shortcomings. For some odd reason he could spend days on end shut up in a stuffy little lab, but being trapped in the caves, and mostly in one rather small cell for what had been at least twenty-four hours (but probably more), was beginning to agitate his latent claustrophobia. And here he thought he had been recovering from the affliction, too…

It was nice to know there was a viable surface to the planet (or possibly moon…but at least the option of asteroid had been eliminated). That meant there was a good chance of a stargate. And stargates equaled at least an infinitesimal amount of hope for escape.

The only question was _How? _Andcould they survive long enough in the hellish underground death fest to make the attempt?

**A/N: Stay tuned for the tasty torturous portion (I promise it is coming up next), unless you don't enjoy that sort of thing. Then you probably clicked on this story by mistake…**


	5. Healers Only Come In Crazy

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything… especially not my insanity. I'll use it though (but just for fun)…**

**Author's note: You will notice that I have avoided the actions that lead to the consequences. It is not only because I am not all that skilled at writing action scenes. I am an aftermath of violence lover. For me that is the meaty, entertaining portion. Perhaps, that is why Reservoir Dogs is among my favourite films… (PS This was written a few years ago, whether that has any bearing, I don't know.)**

**WARNING: PROFANITY AND/OR POSSIBLY OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE AHEAD...**

_A few days later…_

"I heard there was an injured warrior here," a female voice said, attracting the pair of inmates' attention. A small bedraggled woman stood outside the bars of their cave-cell, sandwiched in between a pair of burly guards. They unlocked the door and she shuffled in, clasping a large purse that was uncannily similar to a 19th century carpetbag.

The door was shut with a rusty squeaking of hinges as she knelt down beside the wounded man. McKay simply stared at her wide-eyed from his position kneeling on the other side of the colonel, holding a piece of his own sleeve to the bloody gash across the man's torso. She didn't look like she had lived too many years, but her worn features informed him that those she had seen were not easy ones. Her hair was a mousy sort of brown, frizzy and knotted with various beads and occult tokens embedded within its depths. Her clothes were equally devoid of colour from years of kneeling on the sandy, dirty floors, and darkened with the dried blood of countless patients. What particularly attracted Rodney's attention, though, were the bright stains of a more vivid red spread in blotches across her clothes, and forming a splatter pattern across her left cheek.

"Let's see what we have," she said, pulling McKay's hand away from the wound. He moved to grab her hand but she slapped his other hand away, to which he responded in kind. It deescalated into a slapping fight that only ceased when the injured party interrupted.

"What the hell's going on here?" John barked, having regained consciousness to see McKay in a sissy hand-swatting fight with a rather unkempt-looking woman that conjured images of the Crazy Cat Lady that terrorized the street where he grew up. You never wanted to lose your Frisbee in that yard, _crazy old coot._ Except, this woman was apparently younger than himself.

"Why don't you ask this psycho-_who are you anyway?_"

"I am Estanatl-ehi, the healer for those condemned to the caves. And if you would let me, I can help your friend," she replied calmly.

"What?!" McKay snapped disgustedly. "Look at you! How unsanitary would that be? When was the last time you bathed?!"

"Rodney!" Sheppard called the other man on his tendency to be severely offensive. Although from what he could see of the woman, he wasn't too sure about letting her poke around at his open-wound. Then again, it couldn't be any worse than leaving it as it was. He had already passed out once from blood loss or pain, he wasn't sure. Maybe she had something to quell the hurt. "I don't think I have much of a choice, unless you know where the nearest hospital is located or have figured out how to get Beckett to make house-calls to cave prisons…"

McKay shrugged it off, lifting his hands up in the air and backing up a few inches while mumbling under his breath. "Fine. It's your funeral…"

The healer-woman nodded her head in acknowledgement of the concession then turned to rummage around in her carpet bag for a few moments. The clinking of glass could be heard as she searched its contents. She pulled out a decently-sized clear bottle of equally transparent liquid. When she removed the stopper from the top, the odor burned Rodney's nose and made his eyes water, forcing him to turn away. When he dared to look, she was rubbing her hands together, her miraculously clean hands. Well, maybe not miraculously…the liquid had smelled intensely reminiscent of harsh, industrial-strength cleansers.

She then proceeded to remove the blood-soaked scrap from where it covered John's torso and lifted his black shirt, exposing the slashed flesh. Rodney half-expected blood to start spouting out Tarantino-fashion, for that's what it had seemed like to him when they had first thrown the injured colonel back into the cell. He could still identify the small clots of blood that had soaked into the sand-laden floor, cementing the grains together. But instead of turning into a human fountain, the blood, like it had done with the sand, had made an attempt to clot around the wound.

"Hmph," Sheppard winced as she wiped pools of syrupy, coagulating blood away from the injury. The wound was a slice, sustained when he didn't jump back quite fast enough from the swinging blade of his opponent's sword. The sharp weapon had hit him right below the twelfth rib, splitting open his flesh from his left side almost to the middle of his stomach, leaving behind a six inch long gash which started out rather deep and ended shallow.

"Doesn't look like it was deep enough to damage any of his insides," Estantl-ehi informed McKay. In her experience, the patient was generally too delirious to hold any sort of conversation with.

"Well, that's a big relief, Estella," John said sarcastically through gritted teeth. The healer looked surprised, but only for a moment before she smiled at her patient.

"_Eh-stan-tul Eh-hee_," she corrected him upon the pronunciation of her name.

"So, could you get to the part where you fix this," he urged. "I've got things to do."

"As you wish..." She once again searched through her bag, removing various items that made McKay both curious and cringe. He had oft accused Beckett of being a voodoo doctor, but this chick definitely made the medic seem like the casual dabbler in the darker arts. Among the items removed from the Felix-the-Cat style bag, McKay recognized a needle and some sort of thread. He hoped for Sheppard's sake one of those bottles held an anesthetic.

"You're going to stitch the wound closed with that?" McKay ridiculed the archaic technology. She pulled out a cylindrical item that proved to be a lighter and heated the curved needle over it. "Well, I guess at least it's sterile…"

"You'll have to hold him down," she informed Rodney. He nervously looked to the injured man. They exchanged displeased grimaces. "I don't have anything to give him for the pain."

She began the task of threading the obviously over-used, worn out needle. Rodney found himself squinting, trying to determine exactly what the string was made of. It just didn't look right. "What is that you're going to sew him up with?"

"Chetak sinew," she replied without looking up.

"What is that? _Cat gut?_!"

"No. _Chetak sinew_. It's strong and pliable. It will hold the flesh together without breaking." She finally looked up, her task of threading the needle completed. "Did I not ask you to hold him down? _His shoulders…there!_"

Rodney was too grossed out to give her a snide remark, instead doing as she asked. He gave a questioning look to his friend before placing his hands on the 'patient's' shoulders. With a reassuring nod of his head, John gave his consent. If this was going to hurt half as bad as he anticipated, they would need more than Rodney to restrain him.

The healer leaned in, so that in addition to Rodney's worried face, he saw her grimy but genial features greeting him. "Ready?"

"No," he responded. "But do it!"

John clenched his teeth and his fists in anticipation of the first tiny prick, which rapidly turned into a stabbing pain as the needle was forced into his already stinging flesh. He ground his teeth against the agony, low guttural sounds emerging from deep within his throat. The intensity of the pain subsided a fraction, and he released the breath he realized he had been holding, his chest heaving.

As the needle reentered his body, he felt all of his muscles involuntarily tense. The world became blurry and he squeezed his eyes shut. The visual confusion was only compounding his nausea, but the pain, the extreme pain was far beyond anything he had felt before. Again and again the needle bore its way through his flesh. The blood pounded in his ears and he lashed out at the sand-covered floor with his fists. He tried to prevent himself from writhing, knowing it would only make the procedure more painful, disrupting the needle's intended course.

At least, he hoped she was taking the most efficient route with the godforsaken torture device. It felt more like she was using a butterknife, or a fucking spoon to stitch him up. She probably left the needle dull on purpose, the sadistic bitch! She probably got her jollies from watching the already-maimed twist around in agony, screaming out in pain, pleading for relief!

John cursed the 'healer' woman, swearing revenge for the torture she was inflicting upon him. If he didn't know deep down that it was for his own good, had witnessed the far-worse consequences of infection before, he probably would've lashed out at her right then. Of course he was in no condition-

"Argh!" Sheppard cried out, finally unable to contain his vocalization to deep within his throat. He instinctively started at the particularly more extreme flash of pain, knocking McKay off from him, his body automatically trying to curl up into the fetal position to protect itself.

"Hold him down!" Estantl-ehi called to Rodney. The scientist quickly pushed John back to the ground, once again leaning on his shoulders. The healer woman had moved quickly, pinning his lower body down by kneeling on his legs. She wasn't heavy but the pressure of her bony shins digging into his thighs got his attention. He panted heavily. It still smarted like a son of bitch, but he at least was able to overcome his instinctual reaction to being hurt.

"You're lucky, _yamandea. _The needle was not driven any further into you," she informed John. He didn't dare open his eyes for fear of vertigo despite the fact that he was laying completely flat-out upon the ground, but he knew she was giving him that disturbingly pleased smile. _DAMN HER_!! This was _not_ amusing on any counts. "The wound is deep here. I am going to have to give you some inside stitches."

If those were the kind that caused the needle to pass deeper into the tender flesh, burrowing like a cold steely maggot, John was not happy about the information. However, he had little time to ponder how much more agonizing it would be before she was already driving the curved metal spar into him. And no matter how much it hurt, making his teeth grind against one another and sending multicolored sparks across his vision, the far more disturbing sensation was the thread-cat-gut-whatever moving through the skin and meat of his belly as she tugged the two edges of the wound together. And that smarted too, like the irritated tissue of a blister when you popped it and the upper layer met the lower in a stinging embrace. It was just like that only a thousand times worse…

It was like a giant paper cut, far worse than a puncture. If he had been stabbed straight-on, then she would've been finished stitching him up by now. Although, there would probably have been damaged organs, and that was never-_oh-god-why-didn't-he-just-let-the-bastard-slice-him-in-two-it-would-have-been-over-with!_ John kicked his leg as far as he could move it with the crazy bitch still kneeling on his thighs, digging his heel into the sandy floor, crushing the grains beneath his foot, cursing them in jealousy. They passed through their entire existence without living, without feeling pain, simply eroding and degrading until they were nothing but microscopic particles. _Damn them!_

_Damn this!_ Didn't his brain get the point already? Enough with the agony! His nerves had done their job, informing him that his tissue was being damaged, and he obviously wasn't going to do anything about it! Couldn't they just call it quits? No! They had to continue to scream their messages, causing his entire stomach to be engulfed by an overwhelming burning sensation, and the rest of him to ache from the sustained tension in his quivering muscles.

"There." The current person-he-hated-the-most-in-two-galaxies' voice broke through his manically wandering mind, which was trying to find purchase anywhere but in reality. "Halfway done."

"_Halfway?_!" John somehow managed to croak out with his teeth still clenched. He had to go through all of that again?! Someone was going to pay for this! He wasn't sure exactly who at the moment, but what was certain was that someone _would pay!_ Provided that he lived…

Rodney McKay desperately fought the urge to close his eyes, look away, faint or play dead. He knew his friend needed him, but all the blood and gore was getting to him. If he had eaten anytime recently, he probably would've lost his lunch. Maybe it was selfish of him while his friend was obviously in severe agony, but he couldn't help but consider the nightmares he was going to have over the scene. The crazy, dirty healer-lady, if you could call her that, steadily and unaffectedly placing stitches into human flesh, as its owner cried out in pain, the wound sporadically bleeding and coagulating into a sticky iron-stinking mess, and all the while she was humming some eerie alien tune. Yes, Rodney would not be sleeping soundly for a very long time.

The resistance he felt beneath the palms of his hands eased, alerting the scientist's attention downward. Realizing that the colonel's head had lolled inanimately to the side, panic overcame him. He shook his friend frantically by the shoulders. There was no response.

"He's dead! You killed him!" he shouted at the crazy woman who continued to stitch the wound close.

"He's not dead," she corrected the hysterical scientist. She checked to make sure the colonel's chest was still rising and falling, just to be sure. "His mind just couldn't take the pain anymore. He lost consciousness.

"You're friend was very brave. He lasted longer than most," Estantl-ehi informed McKay as she finished the last few stitches that would close the gory gash. "But it makes my work easier if he is not awake."

**A/N: Was it gory enough? Are you wondering where the plot went? (It should reappear eventually…maybe… Okay, I might need some encouragement on that point.)**


	6. Dreaming Interlude 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis or its characters…**

**Author's note: And now some more randomness…**

_A silhouette darkened my door. It was petite, slender, in a word, feminine. Definitely not Ronon the Rock or Rodney "The Baby" McKay. There was a gentle rap on the door, to match the gentle curves of the figure silhouetted in black against the frosted glass before me._

"_Come in," I said, putting up the pretense that I didn't give a damn whether or not the mystery woman revealed herself._

_The door opened with a creak, and I could smell the sweet scent of lavender before I even got a glimpse of the dame. It tickled my nose and reminded me of all the nights I'd spent alone without the comfort only a pretty girl can provide. _

_And she was pretty, more than that, classy. She was 'Class' in a form-fitting red dress that hugged her waist and hips as they seductively swayed in her approach, her firm breasts bouncing slightly. I pretended not to notice, focusing upon the newspaper I had previously been perusing for juicy stories and names I might recognize. _

_I found myself reading the same line over and over again. Apparently Nick Schenetti had gotten into trouble with the missus again. I just couldn't figure out who had gotten the better of whom this time around, entirely unable to make it to the next sentence, as the attractive broad gracefully moved to perch on the edge of my desk, crossing her legs and leaning in so close I could practically taste that lavender perfume._

"_Mr. Sheppard, I heard you could help me," she drawled. That voice finally coaxed me out of my determination to feign disinterest. It communicated a need, a helplessness that would've fooled a lesser detective, but I take my work seriously. I've been blinded by a pretty face before…but not this time. There was something to the tilt of her voice, something that undermined its apparent urgency._

_Meeting her gaze, I was startled. I was expecting a beauty but not those eyes. They were large, and green, not unlike so many jewels dames would sell their husbands just to stare at through a shop window. And they pinned me to my chair._

"_What can I do for you Mrs…" I prompted once I was able to get over those piercing eyes. _

"Miss _Elizabeth Weir," she corrected my assumption with a particularly attractive twinkle in her eyes. "It's about my brother-in-law, detective."_

"_Yeah, what about him?" I ask, the sarcasm allowing me to distance myself from the gorgeous dame. A few minutes unattended and my mouth and body would've agreed to anything she requested of me. Thank god for my pessimistic, skeptical brain. It's what's kept me alive so far, and with a little luck, a little farther. "Not treating your sister right?"_

"_No, it's not that all, Mr. Sheppard," she replied, she held a cigarette to her lips, plucked from a silver case that formally resided in the depths of her small clutch. I did what I was expected to do. I found a match and lit it for her. She leaned in to light it with a long, slow drag. She was practically in my lap, but even if I liked it, I wasn't about to let it show._

"_He's gone missing," she said after releasing more smoke than one would think capable of filling her petite body. _

"_And you want me to find him," I concluded for her. I couldn't be in my line of work without catching onto at least the blatantly obvious. "Who do ya think's responsible?"_

"_Oh…I dunno," she replied calmly after another long drag on the cigarette. Funny how she wouldn't look me in the eye. Dames…they could be hysterical over the tiniest things, like leaving the milk out. But then a family member goes missing and their make-up's not even out of place. "My sister would probably no better. But she was too broken up to say when I asked her."_

"_Right, miss," I agreed without agreeing. "I'll need to talk to her. And a name would do an awful lot to make my job easier."_

_She raised an eyebrow at me for the sarcasm. But it wasn't a punishment. It felt more like an invitation. To what, I wasn't sure…_

"_Zelenka," she conceded, aggressively grinding the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray on my desk-a gift, from my secretary, Teyla. Good at what she did, but for some reason her taste was always a bit off-like she had a hard time fitting in with the rest of society. _

"_There another name to accompany that?" I probed further when she seemed reluctant. For someone hiring a detective to locate a person, she didn't seem that desperate to divulge the information that would help find him._

"_Radek," she relented to my inquiry after briefly meeting my gaze with her those flashy green eyes. They revealed too much. That's why she didn't like me seeing them. They held all the emotion her body language lacked. "Radek Zelenka."_

_With that, she stood up and headed for the door without so much as a 'thank you.' But then she hesitated. And for some reason, my hardened heart skipped a beat._

"_Let me know when you find him," she added in a voice that said she could care less. The door shut behind her, rattling the pictures on my wall-also selected by Teyla, a strange variety of landscapes from around the world._

_I didn't have to think about it long to know that _Miss _Elizabeth Weir was hiding something from me. But when did clients ever tell you the whole truth, anyway? That's why they came to private eyes, instead of going to the police…they all had secrets._

…

John groaned as the fog that had settled in his head was burned off by a hot pain in his side. And it made the prospect of regaining conscious not all that appealing. However, being conscious held greater possibilities for escaping the horrible situation that was currently making his life quite unpleasant.

Blinking, the dim light even seemed oppressive to his optic nerves, which were aching in sympathy along with the rest of him for his torn and mended flesh. From what he could tell, he was alone in the little cave-cell.

"Rodney?" he probed the empty space as loudly as his strained voice was capable. All resources had been focused on repairing the gash running along his torso. Functions such as talking, or sitting up apparently had been deemed unnecessary.

It was a toss up as to what was a worse sign, the fact that Rodney was apparently absent from their center of incarceration, or that he felt like he had been run over by a rather large truck. Both made the near future look rather grim and the possibility of a future beyond that unlikely.

He rolled over onto his stomach and gasped as his stomach muscles spasmed, pulling at the heavy stitching closing the six-inch long gash. It took several moments before he was ready to try the next stage in the long ordeal that was getting back onto his feet. He pushed himself up onto his knees and rested for a moment, his heavy breathing bringing something strange to his attention. There was a bizarre tight feeling on his stomach, hot and slightly itchy. He was finally able to detect the sensation, having gotten used to the persistent painful ache of injured flesh.

Lifting up his shirt, he found a bizarre sort of bandage mysteriously fused to his flesh over what had been a chasm carved into his skin and muscle. He didn't have long to contemplate the strangely advanced yet simultaneously primitive looking medical dressing before a shadow was cast across the sandy floor of the cell. John looked up to find its source.

Two guards. And in between them was sandwiched one very unhappy looking MacKay. But at least he resembled a decent sort of sandwich meat, whereas John usually came back looking like shaved rare roast beef, bleeding and in ragged pieces.

The door was opened with its grating squeal, like it too was tortured in the hands of the brutish ogres. McKay stumbled in like he had received a significant shove, which Sheppard did not doubt the man had indeed gotten. And he wasn't sure why, but he snickered as the indignant man turned to stare down the pair that combined were about three or four times the scientist's size. Rodney was afraid of everything. That was until he was insulted or incensed enough, and then he'd berate a nuclear bomb if it had given offense.

Fortunately, the guards simple departed, secure in the knowledge that the smaller man could do nothing, not even if he wasn't on the wrong side of something resembling wrought iron.

"What the hell are you staring at, you lazy…?!" McKay snapped at him as he turned his aggression upon a more stationary source. "I've been working my ass off _and_ trying to figure out a way out of this godforsaken hellhole while you've just been lying around. So don't give me any of your guff!"

"McKay!" he shouted, but the man continued on his pointless tirade. It was difficult for John to feel offended or hurt by the string of insults and profanities, for he knew it was the acerbic scientist's way in stressful situations. So when the man took a break for respiration, John utilized the opportunity to quietly change the subject. He no more wanted to dwell on the agonizing futility of their situation than he wanted to listen to his so-called-friend's bitching and moaning.

"I've been having strange dreams," he announced, leaning against a refreshingly cool rock wall. Mckay gave him a completely astounded look, the wind falling out of his sails. His mouth hung open as his brain failed to catch up to the change in the topic of conversation.

"I feel like my subconscious is trying to tell me something," John continued on in a calm and reserved manner that only seemed to infuriate his cellmate.

"Is now really the best time for dream analysis, Freud?!" McKay snapped back, having finally processed the conversational shift. John simply shrugged nonchalantly, making the mercurial scientist huff in disgust over his blasé acceptance of the situation.

"I think that Elizabeth is keeping something from me," John continued to ignore his comrade's indignant reaction to what seemed like completely random and irrelevant revelations.

"What?!"

"In my dreams, she is keeping secrets from me," John explained. It was really starting to bother him. What had he picked up on, some subtle conspiracy? Did they not get along as well as he had thought? Did she still not trust him for some reason? "I think there's a reason for them."

"Yeah," Rodney conceded whilst rolling his eyes. "Blood loss!"

"Pull it together, Sheppard!" The edgy scientist was really beginning to panic, his inner pessimist was filling an auditorium and the lecture would resound around his head, ringing of the truth. With the colonel losing his mind, as well as being physically incapacitated, that slim sliver of hope that said they could in fact survive this was waning fast.

_How could he fix this?_

**A/N: More Shep Abuse ahead…and some for Rodney, too. Will they ever get it together and escape? Or are they beyond help? Maybe the others will rescue them?**


	7. Things Never Go From 'Bad To Better'

**Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis or its characters… (or the other random whatnot I referenced in this chapter, you'll see what I'm talking about...if you read it.)**

**Author's note: Some more, just because... (Honestly, because I've already had this written for well over a year, I think)**

**WARNING: CONTAINS GORE AND POSSIBLY INCOMPREHENSIBLE TIME LAPSE FROM LAST CHAPTER**

* * *

_We'll just pick the lock and get out of here!_

Yeah, that was a smart one. He had been furious at first, when Rodney had revealed that he had been capable of picking the lock practically the entire time of their incarceration (thanks to the metal barb the witch-woman had removed from John's leg-_when you dodge a mace, make sure you fully clear it_). But after they had been caught and beaten to within an inch of their lives (well, John had taken the brunt of their aggression) it seemed like not all that brilliant of a plan. But could John really be blamed? He had been getting the shit kicked out of him on basically a daily basis for going on two weeks. At least, McKay told him it was about two weeks since they had been ambushed and nabbed for the sick gladiator-esque games. And McKay was in a much better situation to keep track of things like the days-he still had most of his brain cells and non-tenderized organs.

_McKay!_

Sheppard pushed himself up off of the ground, only to discover that he hadn't the strength to make it past his knees. He hobbled over to where the other man was lying, both of them back within the confines of the cramped cave-cell. It was an immensely difficult task for something that should be so simple. It felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly in the stomach, and twisting the blade just to make the torture go a little further. And then he heaved. And it was the most repulsing, disturbing vomiting experience he had ever had.

It wasn't so much that it felt like someone had reached down his throat, dug their nails into his stomach and attempted to rip the organ out of his body. It was more the contents of said organ that were revealed as they splashed out and began to soak into the generous amount of sand-cover upon the cave floor. There was acid, its presence made known whilst it tracked its fiery way up his esophagus. But that wasn't the disturbing part, either. The thing John really hadn't wanted to see was the thicker red fluid mixed in amongst the bile-_blood_.

It wasn't something he had wanted to see, but it didn't really surprise him either. The large barbarian-like guards had beaten him pretty good, expertly in fact. He could almost admire their skill, if it hadn't been used against his one and only body (no exchanges or refunds if it got damaged). They hadn't gone for the face (at least there was that). But why would they have? That was amateurish or implied some sort of personal connection. Their intention hadn't been to place fear into him or those who would see him, nor had it been to give him brain damage. A man with a damaged brain might not realize he was messed up bad, might not feel the terror of imminent, agonizing death. But a man with full cognitive abilities would quickly realize how efficiently a job they had done turning his internal organs into mush.

John let himself collapse onto his side, curling up into a fetal position as he contemplated the severest beating he had yet received (and hopefully ever would receive) in his life. So, his organs were bleeding into his stomach…_It could be worse, right? Possibly?_ He was at least still alive. Although, with this particular kind of internal damage, for how long would that hold true?

That brought up an interesting thought.

Where exactly would John go when he died? Everyone kept calling him a warrior, so maybe he'd go to the warriors' heaven, (what did the Vikings call it) _Valhalla_. Yeah, that was the place…feasting for an eternity, drinking, rough-housing, telling tales of impressive feats, _women_. But Viking women…big, voluptuous blondes? John wasn't too keen on large beauties. Maybe that wasn't where he wanted to go…

Wasn't there another warriors' heaven he'd heard of before?

What was it? StoVoKor? Wait a minute! That was _Star Trek _Klingon heaven. Why would he go there? Plus, their women were far less appealing than the ugliest Viking chick he could conjure. Then again, it was all make-up wasn't it? The actresses had to be attractive, they were actresses after all. And he was pretty sure, if he was remembering correctly, that the one woman who played B'Elanna , what was her name? Roxann Dawson? She was fairly hot in real life. So maybe that wouldn't be so bad…

And John realized that he was some kind of sci-fi nerd to be thinking about _Star Trek_ in his last moments of life.

_Sci-fi nerd?!_

Shit! John had completely forgotten about McKay, consumed by the depressing realization of his imminent, agonizing demise. He needed to check on his friend. That one blow to the head Rodney had received, which 'unfortunately' made him unconscious and unavailable for the kick-the-crap-out-of-the-escapees smile-time variety hour, probably was concussion-worthy. And if he didn't wake the scientist up now, he might not ever wake up again. And two of them dead would be worse than one. Someone had to fetch the calvary, as well as formulate and execute a revenge plan.

"Rodney!" he tried to shout, but his dry, stomach-acid-corroded throat refused to allow him anything beyond kindergarten indoor-voice level, that is, if the child had been a chain smoker since birth. When the man refused to respond, John grabbed his shoulders and began to shake him violently.

The movement, however, affected John far more than the unconscious man, and he had to quickly turn away to empty the contents of his abused stomach again. More blood, less acid. And the blood was darker, the liver its origin. As far as John could remember, liver damage was bad, very bad, poison seeping into the gruel-like substance his insides had become bad. He was mildly happy to note that no chunks had made it into his stomach yet, but maybe that was just because his internal organs had truly been reduced to oatmeal consistency.

After taking a few seconds to catch his breath (which also imparted a happy thought, that although some of his ribs had definitely been broken, his lungs had managed not to collapse-yes, things were looking up), he turned back to his forever-the-pain-in-the-ass friend, and smartly slapped him across the face.

This got Dr. Rodney McKay's attention, pulling him from the black, dreamless sleep the blow to the back of the head had propelled him into.

"WHAT THE HELL!" he shouted reflexively as he sat bolt upright. He turned to his friend and winced. Looking around, taking in the stinking pools of vomit and blood soaking into the sand floor, his wince turned into a wide-eyed expression of panicky fear.

"Are you alright? Am I alright?" He patted himself down, then looked back at the barely kneeling heap that was Colonel Sheppard. "Are you alright? What happened? Did we escape?"

"Yes, Rodney, we escaped," John said flatly, managing to call up the strength for at least a last little bit of sarcasm. "And Elizabeth was so pissed at us for getting into trouble again, she kicked my ass. Then she threw us back in this hell hole to think about what we did."

McKay just stared blankly at him for several seconds, confusion claiming his features.

"Of course not!" John continued on berating his friend. It made him feel better, and he might as well get it in while he still could. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius or someth-

The insult was cut off as John's stomach was topped off with blood, triggering a gag reflex, and releasing the tainted fluid from his body. When he was done vomiting, he returned his attention to his comrade, this time self-consciously wiping the stomach acid and blood (but mostly blood) from the corners of his mouth. He tried to swallow the taste down, but his body had apparently stopped producing saliva for some strange reason. He supposed dead men didn't need to eat, and his body didn't need any more fluid accumulating inside of it.

John let himself collapse again, rolling over to lie on his back. It was easier to breath, eased the pain a little.

"We need to get out of here, McKay, and fast," he announced from the ground.

"You saw what happened last time," the scientist replied grimly. He had never quite seen the man this badly damaged before. The only time he had been worse off was when they had stopped his heart, but even then he didn't look this pathetic. He was incredibly pale, vomiting blood, and looked as if he were about to lose consciousness at any moment. "And you're in no condition to make an escape."

"Wrong again, my incredibly dumb, smart friend," John corrected. "I'm in no condition _not_ to escape."

"What is that supposed to mean?!" Rodney hated it when people weren't being straight with him. Only he was allowed to lead people around in circles, ridiculing them for not understanding what was blatantly obvious to his genius eyes. John clutched at his stomach, apparently in pain, curling up on his side, then rolled onto his back again. "Sheppard! What's wrong?"

"I don't have much time, Rodney," he managed to choke out. "If I don't get back to Atlantis, get serious medical attention, and soon, I'll die."

"It can't be that _bad_," McKay said patronizingly, more to convince himself. He knew that without Sheppard, he didn't have much chance of escaping himself. John was the muscle, military, escape tactic guy. Alien technology saving the day was McKay's purview. And for medical stuff, they needed Beckett…

But that didn't stop McKay from trying, from just wanting to know that it wasn't that bad, that everything was going to be okay, that his friend was going to be okay. He lifted John's shirt, what remained of it, up, exposing the flesh of his torso. "See, it's not…that…bad…"

Alright, so it was pretty nasty looking. The colonel's entire stomach was turning various shades of blue and purple as blood pooled beneath the skin, a degree of bruising unlike any Rodney had ever seen or heard of before. And through the strange bandage that the healer-witch-lady had fused to the skin of his stomach, Rodney could see the blood beginning to flow, the partially healed wound reopened from the severe onslaught of abuse he had received. That in of itself would've been crippling, but it wasn't the life-threatening part.

Maybe Rodney was a bit of a hypochondriac at times, but he didn't think he was over-diagnosing his friend's condition as probably fatal. Throwing up blood, severe abdominal pain…he was bleeding internally. The question was 'How much time did he have?' And 'what could Rodney possibly do about it?'

* * *

**A/N: Duh, duh, duh! Okay, I seem to always end the chapters with Rodney pondering how futile the situation is, but he is a worrier, so… Plus, you have obviously noticed what I like to write (or what I am only able to write about) is the post-violence suffering. **

**A/N2: They will be saved. Maybe…maybe I'll decide that no one seems to care enough and end their suffering. Perhaps, you should review just in case…**


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